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Tate sat on the curb next to Lance, head cradled in his paws. The bulk of the storm had passed, a light drizzle taking its place. The coroner, a studious looking rat, approached the two detectives, camera hanging from his neck and paws hidden beneath latex gloves.

"Certainly quite a find you two gents turned up," he chirped, lounging against Lance's black SUV. "Gotta say, its been a while since I've seen someone get so creative with this line of work. I think your department's gonna be verrry busy the next few days."

Tate dropped his paws, frowning up at the cheerful rat. "Oh yeah? How's that?"

The coroner cleared his throat, pulling the polaroids from his breast pocket, flipping through them as a dealer would cards. "Three wooden crates, seven by five by three, each packed to the brim with our friends here. Its impossible to gauge at this point just how many bodies were sealed up in total, since there are multiple casualties in each package, organized according to size and species. Cause of death for each, though, is pretty obvious--intense pressure from the shrinkwrapping process, bodies collapsed, the weaker structures and organs were...liquified. Yum. I don't know what kind of machine can exude that much force on plastic without breaking it," he chuckled, "but the material itself is high-grade stuff. Industrial strength."

Lance snorted, shaking his head. "Helluva way to go. All those poor souls in there. Sick."

Tate felt woozy, but steadied himself. "I guess its pretty obvious now why we didn't get the civvies involved, huh."

The coroner looked back and forth between the two. "Not to me it isn't."

Lance pulled a empty cigarette box from his pocket, shaking it by his ear before crumpling it and tossing it aside. "The Ave Maria is an import-export vessel, last port logged in Portugal. Which makes this a matter for the feds. But as the dock workers explained, this is the second time this ship has docked here in two days, so its more than likely that whoever shipped those crates did so from this pier, and lives in the city. I for one don't care much for federal investigation taking precedence over local law enforcement."

Tate sighed in exasperation. There he went again, the jaded cop routine. Only in movies did civil protection and federal agents butt heads. The reality was that CP, when encountered with cases too big or too disturbing for their units to handle, almost always handed over jurisdiction to the feds without hesitation. Lance didn't seem to understand the concept that there were always things out of his control, no matter how heavy he carried himself.

"Wade, listen." Tate rubbed at his eyelids, cricking his jaw. "Its 4 am. I need sleep. You've put your job on the line just by calling our friend here--" He pointed up at the rat, who waved, "--without going through the appropriate lines. I'm not losing my job over this. I LIKE my job. I like following protocol. It makes me feel safe. It keeps me from seeing shit like this." He waved back at the warehouse. "Well, you know those feds you hate so much,it's their job to handle shit like this. I'm going home. I'm going to bed. I've got stuff to do tomorrow. So get up, get in your car, and get the fuck out of here."

If they hadn't been partners as long as they had, Tate would surely have been clocked across the jaw. Instead, Lance just snorted, tossing his head in frustration like the old stallion he was, and pulled himself up onto his hooves. "Yeah. Sure. You're right. I don't like that you're right, but you're right. It's all sick anyway." He took the coroner off to the side, turning his back to Tate, who stood as well and stretched. He needed sleep, bad. There was nothing standing in his way now between him and his bed back home.

Nothing, except irony. In his haste to find protection against the elements, Tate had left the keys in the ignition, and had locked the door behind him. He fiddled with the door handle a moment before banging on the roof resignedly.

"Hey, Wade, you mind giving me a ride?"

The big horse broke off the conversation with the rat, turning to face the otter. "Why?" he called back.

Tate pointed at the window of his sedan. "Locked myself out."

Lance just stared at him. "So break the window in."

"I can't afford window repairs right now. Spent my reserves on my last fix."

Lance shook his head, taking something from the coroner's offering paw and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. The rat turned away, bouncing back to his car, and Lance waved his partner over silently. Tate patted his hood before trotting over to the SUV's passenger side door, pulling it open and climbing up.

"You're buying me breakfast for this," the horse grumbled. He put the car in gear and pulled out onto the wet asphault, splashing through a puddle as it went.

"So how's the kid?" Lance kept his eyes forward as he drove.

Tate blinked. "What kid?"

"Your kid BROTHER. Henry. Haven't seen him in a while."

"Oh." Tate shrugged. "Doing good. Had a birthday a couple days ago, though I haven't talked to him since then."

Lance tapped a finger on the steering wheel. "Seems kind of funny, a sibling that young, and you don't hardly talk to him."

"He's not THAT young," Tate shot back, "And I've just been busy lately, is all."

"Yeah, well," Lance clicked his teeth in disapproval, "Try to keep an eye on him, is all I'm saying. Lotta creeps out there."

The otter rolled his eyes. "Why the sudden concern in my family, Wade? Something bothering you?"

"Hey, don't be stupid. You know I love your family, your WHOLE family." This made Tate cough uncomfortably. "And yeah--you don't get to take a look at some poor folk who been wrapped up so tight they been popped, and thrown in crates with a dozen other folk, and then walk away from it saying you ain't bothered. So if seeing somethin' like that makes me worry for your kid brother, who you say you haven't talked to in days, even though you live in the same damn house, then what do you got to say against me showing concern?"

"Damn, sorry, okay, I get it," Tate threw his paws up. He didn't know why he was defending himself to his partner, but he felt guilty nonetheless. "I'll give him a call today, how's that?"

"It's a start. Next step would be to skip out on some of your beauty sleep to actually sit down and talk to him."''

"He's staying the weekend at a friend's house," Tate said. "Some belated birthday present deal. The friend is a fag, so I can only imagine what that could mean."

"Fag friend means fag birthday present. Congratulations, your brother's now a poof."

"Yeah, no doubt," Tate laughed. "Nah, he's cool. He's had his eye on a particularly sweet young thing, she comes by every now and then. I think she could even be his first."

Lance didn't respond, and the conversation lulled. Tate stared out the window at the dark buildings rolling past, sitting just beyond the range of the overhead streetlamps.

"Did I ever tell you..." Lance spoke up a few minutes later, "...about that..."

"That drug ring you busted up down South, and that barfight you got into with that actor, and that mare you slept with that you swear was your sister?" Tate nodded. "Many times, actually. I think its about time you did something else worthwhile, something you can actually brag about and get away with."

Lance paused, eyes still fixed on the road. "I wasn't gonna say any of that."

"Yeah, sure you weren't," Tate scoffed. "You ran out of stories long ago, my friend. Long ago."

"I never told anyone this one, though," Lance said solemnly, quietly. His eyes seemed saddened.

"Oh yeah?" Tate was incredulous. "A story you never told before? This I gotta hear."

Barely had the words escaped his mouth before the world went horizontal. An unseen force had pummeled into the driver side of the SUV, lifting the vehicle off its tires, sending it rolling. Tate's arms were thrown out in front of him, the windows shattering, glass bouncing around the canopy of the car like drops of mercury. The car was airborne momentarily, flipped upside down, before the roof smashed back down on the pavement. A horrible metallic screech deafened him, eyes shut tight, blood rushing to his head. He was dimly aware of the SUV tumbling through the air three, even four times, the tight suspension relieving none of the vehicle's momentum as it rolled.

After an eternity the car righted itself, slamming tires-down onto a gravel lot. His head swimming, Tate forced his eyes open, his sight dulled and blurred. A massive dark shape loomed before the spiderwebbed windshield, figures moving about beyond his vision. Groaning and gritting his teeth, he raised an arm, reaching for his holster. A stabbing pain in his chest slowed his progress, every breath he took excruciating. Soon his fingers connected loosely with his belt, and he pulled weakly at the strap, unfastening the button keeping his pistol locked in place.

"Jarvis," Lance whispered, his husky voice subdued, pained. Tate looked over at his partner, who lay slumped against the steering column, face turned away. He looked dead. "Under the...backseat. My Benelli. Give it to me."

Tate nodded, grimacing as he unbuckled himself, twisting himself in his seat. He saw the shadows outside drawing closer, speaking to each other in hushed tones. Holding his breath, he tore into the leather seat with his claws and shoved himself back, screaming out as he did, almost passing out from the strain. He collapsed behind the driver side seat, landing on a bed of tinted glass shards. The dark tube was tucked behind the seat's metal supports, and Tate reached for it, gripping it by the barrel and worming it out. He heard the driver door creak open and footsteps crunching on the glass outside, and Lance's limp, heavy form was pulled from his view.

Someone said something he couldn't understand, and he heard someone else respond with "Well where the fuck is the other one?" Tate drew the shotgun up over his belly with one paw, the other working at pulling his Glock from its sheath. A leg became visible in the space between the open door and the seat, and he attacked--he whipped the pistol up and blew a round into the presented knee, and the creature hollered and fell. It fell to the ground, boar's head coming into view, and he fired twice more. The head snapped back and the body was still.

His ears rang from the close proximity of the exploding gun, and he winced, pushing the shotgun up by its stock through the gap, shoving it out of the car. It clattered to the ground below, and Tate prayed Lance was fit to use it.

Fit he was, as a moment later, the old horse rose slowly, Benelli tucked into his shoulder, held up by one arm as the other, obviously injured, was curled over his belly. Lance clopped forward, heavy hooves falling like weights, advancing towards the semi-rig that had plowed into his SUV. The little weasel had fled back to the truck, scrabbling back up into the driver's seat, his nerve lost now that his partner in crime lay dead. Silly little thing, the staggering horse mused, not keeping a piece close by just in case. He limped forward until he was directly in front of the crumpled engine housing, the rig roaring back to life. The weasel had barely time to put his footpaw to the gas pedal before Lance slammed the shotgun down on the twisted metal, tilting the barrel up towards the canopy. He pulled the trigger and the Benelli kicked back with a powerful boom, the terrified face of the mustelid obscured by a crimson splash on the inside of the splintered windshield.

Tate had squirmed out of the car and sat now against the flattened tire, the pistol limp in his grip, head sinking towards his heaving chest. He felt a sticky warmth creeping down past his shoulderblades, and his eyes closed. He heard a grunt above the idling engine of the semi, his partner dropping the shotgun and falling to the asphault. Someone had to have heard the shots. He could rest now. Take a nap until someone arrived. He needed the sleep anyway.

The young otter lay bellydown on the bed, curled in a curious position, his tight, shapely rump elevated slightly over his bent knees. The german shepherd sitting next to him couldn't take his eyes off it, and was finding breathing difficult. It was all he could do not to lift that tail and bury his muzzle under it, but he restrained himself, letting the pup sleep on. His shaft had risen partially, head buzzing with joyous arousal. This was exactly what he had been waiting for, who he had been longing for. All the icy stresses that had settled on his back had melted away, and he shook them off, relishing the sunny warmth exuded by that adorable little otterface. He had to check himself, worrying that he had become a pedophile before working out that there was no way Henry would be in that club if he weren't of age.

His eyes remained trained on that round butt, paw wrapping itself around his steadily growing member, tightening without stroking. He closed his eyes, thinking back to a few hours earlier, to those moments before his release. Henry hadn't known how to act, had tried to keep himself hidden beneath the canine, but he still felt every spasm and twitch as his orgasm had rocked the small otter's body. Such peculiar behavior...it dawned on him that not only had Henry been a virgin in practice, but had never even felt--never known what to EXPECT from--an orgasm. At that moment, he envied the otter, knowing he would never be able to feel anything as mindblowing as what Henry had. He was a true innocent.

Well, not anymore. He smirked, allowing a small, measured stroke of his hard shaft before removing his paw. Outside the window, he sun had risen, but clouds still partially obscured it, darkening the hotel room. The canine backed himself up fully onto the bed, laying on his side and sliding himself up to meet the otter's back. Taking pains not to wake him, he rolled his arm up and over Henry, tightening around his chest, while his shaft slipped between the soft thighs and his legs curled up under the twitching footpaws. He pushed his aching canine meat further until it rose up under the softened ottersheath. This stirred Henry, and he cursed himself for not being more careful. The otter curled his neck inward, head resting itself on his arm like a pillow.

"Thief...mmm..."

The dog blinked, stifling a chuckle. Had he just been called a thief? He amused himself with this notion, unaware of the two small, velvety paws until it was too late. His entire body stiffened, the smile fleeing from his muzzle as he felt the paws stroking his cock, the silken pads massaging over his length. Was Henry awake? He raised his head up to check--but the otter's eyes were closed, his features peaceful. Closer investigation, however, revealed his sheath to be engorged, the pink tip poking out. His heart ached as his member did at the sight. Henry must be dreaming about him, and had needed to touch himself, thinking the dog's aroused malehood to be his own. With a small whimper, the canine pulled the sleepy otter even tighter to him, squeezing his eyes shut to trap a tear before it could splash on Henry's forehead.

He awoke almost instantly, the sound of his phone vibrating through his pants reaching his ears. Thief had fallen asleep holding Henry to him like a stuffed animal, and he knew he wouldn't be able to move without awakening the canine. A brief montage of images from the night before played before his mind's eye, and he shuddered, deciding maybe waking him wouldn't be such a terrible thing. He pushed the arm barring his chest away, sliding on his belly to the edge of the bed and pushing his top half over, reaching down to grab at his pants. He pulled the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear, pressing the talk button.

"Hello?" He whispered.

"Hiii, sweetcheeks," Sean purred. "Morning after call."

"Oh...yeah, hi." Henry felt embarassment rankling at the back of his neck. He pulled his wallet from his pocket as well, dropping it on the bedside table.

"So I take it you had fun? You're still in bed with him, aren't you?"

"Ohh!" Henry squeaked and almost dropped the phone. Thief had woken at some point and had taken hold of the otter's ankles, tongue lapping between his cheeks, caressing his sore entrance wetly. He bit his lip to regain some composure, but Sean heard his cries in spite of his efforts. The jaguar laughed manically on the other end.

"He sounds wonnnderful...mayhaps when you're done with your new toy you'll let kitty play with him?"

"No!" Henry squirmed, fighting to concentrate on the conversation. "No, he's--urgh--"

Sean was giggling like a schoolgirl. "Okay, I'll call back in a few minutes..."

Henry dropped the phone back into his pants and pulled himself up as far as he could, looking back at Thief. His feathered black hair was just as shaped and beautiful as the night before, eyes closed as he worked, tail swishing slowly over his rocky thighs.

"Why are you doing that?!" Henry writhed pitifully, gasping and blinking.

Thief smirked and withdrew his tongue, kissing once under his tail and opening his eyes, smiling up at the indignant otter. "Good morning, darling...I was hungry and decided it was as tasty a breakfast as any. Don't mind me."

Henry pulled his tail up between his legs, protecting his nethers from Thief's hungry eye. It felt so alien, this entire situation. He had never been naked in front of anyone else since he was a cub, let alone sleeping nude with a strange male. "No, I'm...sorry, just...new to all this. Didn't know I'm supposed to let you lick my butt."

Thief laughed, a sweet, breathy sound. "You're adorable. I didn't have too at all, I did it because I knew you would enjoy it. You did enjoy it, didn't you?"

His smug smile had returned, an eyebrow arched, fangs glinting. Henry kneaded his paws in his lap, a guilty heat flushing his cheeks. "Does that make me weird...?"

The shepherd shook his head, chuckling and rolling over onto his back, Henry's gaze drawn instinctively to his bulging sheath. "Lay with me, dear."

If any of his friends or family had walked in on them at that moment, Henry knew he would surely die. He thanked the heavens for hotels and inched forward towards the older canine, legs trembling. Thief grasped at his paw and held it in his, while Henry lifted himself up and over, setting himself down on the slab of muscled dog. Thief looked up at him, smiling dreamily, and the otter couldn't help but smile back, savoring every moment he spent with this male.

"Are we supposed to have more sex now?" Henry asked, his voice cracking a bit.

"No...no, now we're supposed to talk. I said lay, honey, not sit."

Henry did as he was told, lowering himself until his head lay on Thief's chest, their noses almost touching. The shepherd ruffled his hair affectionately. "You called me by an intriguing name last night," he said, finger tracing a pattern over Henry's lower back.

"Name...? I wouldn't know..." Henry blinked, confused.

"Yeah. You said I was a thief. What did I steal, I wonder?"

Henry hesitated. What could he say to something like that? "Well...um...you didn't tell me your name?"

"My memory must be terrible, because I seem to remember saying a lot of things I didn't." The dog licked the otter's nose. "Its Warren. Warren Jacques."

"Warren Jacques," Henry repeated. It suited him perfectly. "What did you want to talk about?"

"You, and me, and what happens next." Warren kissed at his forehead.

"I didn't think that's how one-night stands worked..."

"Who said this was a one-night stand?"

Henry could taste the honey in Warren's voice. "Sean, my friend you met...though I guess it would make him even happier if I came back with a boyfriend in tow."

As soon as he said it, he knew he'd screwed up. The air rushed from his lungs as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Boyfriend? What was he thinking? Had he been drugged? Even he knew you didn't say stuff like that the morning after the first night.

Warren didn't miss a beat, though, taking in Henry's pained expression and laughing it off, playing along as if it were a joke. "Hah, he probably would, wouldn't he? A funny little cat, that one. He offered to give me his number."

Henry pulled his ears back, wishing he hadn't said anything. It was sweet of Warren to detour the conversation like that, but at the same time it left a bitter taste in his mouth. It told him that Warren didn't want any kind of relationship with him; more likely than not, he was buttering Henry up for the moment when he would drive him home and disappear forever. It left him with a hole in his gut, a hollow disappointment. Things had gone sour so fast, so easily, with one little word. How could ever carry on with this kind of lifestyle if it was going to constantly be that difficult?

"Yeah...he's funny like that." He looked away from that smug face, suddenly feeling sorrowful, wanting little more than to go home. He didn't want Warren to leave at all, but he knew it was coming soon, and he rather would've gotten it over with as soon as possible than have to be torchered like this. Why did it even upset him so much? It was only his first time. As special as he had wanted it to be, he knew from the start his first wouldn't be his last. It never worked out like that.

As if on cue, he heard his phone vibrating again. Sean calling back, and so soon? He was probably hoping to catch Henry in the dirty act of playing pillowbiter. Warren's face lit up, and his joyous grin returned, his arm reaching over the edge of the bed, resurfacing with the phone in tow. Henry reached for it, but the paw drew back, the thumb pressing the speaker button on the side. He looked Warren square in the eye, those entrancing amber eyes, and managed a faux-pas smile, hoping it passed for playful. "Hello?" He said, speaking to the phone resting on Warren's chest.

There was a few seconds of silence, and then a very tired sounding voice filtered through the speaker. "Hey, punk, its Tate...how's uh...how's things, kid?"

Warren's smile stayed put, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, head tilting. Henry looked down at the phone. "Um...okay, I guess? You okay, Tate, you sound kind of...dopey." Henry mouthed the word brother, and Warren nodded, satisfied.

"Yeah, heh...dope does that to you, y'know..." His voice was slow, monotonous. "They had to put me on stuff, since the, uh, the wreck and all."

Henry's eyes shot back to Warren's, who's smile had vanished completely, his face expressionless. "What wreck? What're you talking about?"

Tate sighed, coughing once. "Well...well, there was a collision...uh, a couple people died, but I'm okay, I'm at the hospital..."

Warren tensed, ears perked in alarm, and Henry felt panic setting in. "That's why I'm calling, actually," Tate continued, "I uh...well, don't have anyone to pick me up, and...was...wondering if one of your friends could afford the drive..."

Henry was lifted off the dog and set back down on the bed, the phone following suit. Warren was already bending over to dress himself, naked ass filling Henry's field of vision; he vaguely recalled falling asleep with the dog's pants and boxers still intact. "Um, yeah, sure, we can--I can be there soon, already on ou--my way. Hold tight, 'kay?"

"Cool, kid, I'll see you soon then..." The call ended.

His underwear dropped from the sky into his lap, followed swiftly by his shirt and jeans. "You're really gonna drive me all the way to the hospital?" He asked tentatively.

"Of course I am, don't be stupid." It was the first time he had heard Warren speak in any tone of voice other than sexy; the abrupt flatness with which he said it saddened Henry. He decided the best course of action would be to remain silent from this point on, put on a show of being thoughtful to conceal his hurt. He stiffened his jaw to keep his bottom lip from quivering and began clothing himself at a relaxed pace--maybe he would get lucky, and Warren would be relieved to be left in peace.

"You ready? Have everything? We're not coming back here." His voice was firm, and Henry sighed inwardly, suspicions confirmed.

"Yeah...I am."